


Silence

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-24
Updated: 2002-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf makes some observations about Frodo and Sam after the destruction of the Ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired/influenced by my reading of the early chapters of "The Silmarillion" (particularly "Ainulindalë (The Music of the Ainur)", written by JRR Tolkien), and the songs "Ascension" (from the 2nd Moulin Rouge soundtrack) and "The Bridge of Khazad-Dûm" (specifically the soloist &amp; choir at the end, from the FOTR movie soundtrack, composed by Howard Shore). Forgive me if I mess up anything to do with the Silmarillion, it's complicated, ok!? Dedicated to my fellow Cormari, Uluithiel and Telcontar.

Silence.

It was the silence that grieved him, pained him beyond the knowledge of their physical wounds and what caused them.

Frodo and Sam were silent.

*

 

Mithrandir was old. He was not of the Valar but close to them; closer than Iluvatar's children, the Elves, the Quendi -- self-named for their discovery and use of speech, of language. The Quendi had language and the Valar had song, and so perhaps Mithrandir's empathy for it was born of his closeness to them . . .

Then again, maybe it *was* the Quendi, for it was the elf-ring Narya -- the ring of fire he had borne in secret for so long -- that seemed to magnify the song for him, amplify it and yet pick out each individual voice and its timbre in every being he met.

Then again, maybe it *was* Narya, for it was the song, the music, the *sound* he had heard, ad *felt* in that moment, starting with a low continuous moan as if the earth beneath him were vibrating in grief then gradually overrunning with note upon grievous note, simple and yet relentless, chords growing and straining in agony, unbearable, unbearable . . . He knew and felt Galadriel and Elrond - distant in their sanctuaries even as battle roiled around him -- bowing to it, being overwhelmed by it and could barely hear his own voice crying "*Stand men of the West, stand and wait! This is the hour of doom!*" And the music had risen to a single voice, a single note of grief rising then falling and ceasing . . . Then silence.

*

Silence even as Aragorn had bent over the tiny bodies, motionless, soundless, broken and dark with soot on the white linen. Silence even as the scent of athelas infused the tent, barely discernable from Aragorn's rich and complex chord, beckoning them back from the brink of darkness, back from that void . . .

But had they been saved? He could close his eyes and reach out, and it were as if neither of them were there, as if neither of them *existed*, let alone lived . . .

And the emptiness in Frodo's eyes, as they had fluttered open that first time to focus on him, seemed to banish even the corporeal sounds; low murmuring voices and the occasional metallic *clank* of armour, the chattering whisper of a breeze through the beech leaves.

Not a single note could he hear as Frodo and Sam dashed forward to embrace their guide and healer, no chord even as their kinsmen piped and bubbled around them; their own melodies now more complex with minor strains. His hand had touched Frodo's as the Ring-bearer had handed him the crown of Gondor, and it was as if he had suddenly been struck deaf amongst the symphony of the congregation.

 

*

It was a bittersweet joy when low, simple chords hummed softly from Sam. Bittersweet because they came with a mention of home -- a late night recollection in the moonlight of Ithilien -- and bittersweet because the notes were of a minor key, strands of pain interwoven into the simple pattern as Sam looked to his Master and saw past the tired smile to the emptiness beneath. To the silence.

For Frodo remained silent. Even the tentative fragments of Sam's refrain failed to draw up the answering chords in Frodo; a duet Gandalf had perceived from the beginning, one that brooked no arguments -- or indeed, allowed any other options than his the one given at the beginning of the journey . . . The memory of it was loud now, and the memory of his own voice, tinged with knowledge and amusement - "*I have thought of a better use for you*" - paled to a whisper beside the music that had risen up as he had spoken it.

*

What had happened to cause such silence? What had happened to Frodo as he had walked in that black land, under a burden even the elven ring-bearers had refused to accept? Guilt weighed on Gandalf now, regret rising like bile even as the contradictions made his head spin . . . Frodo had been destined to be the Ring-bearer, the outcome of his Quest made that clear enough. Yet Gandalf could almost believe that the grief that weighed him down now was heavier than the Ring would have been, that it preyed on his mind and constantly whispered in his thoughts more than the Ring would have done. His grief was like the Ringspell, whispering to him *you ought to have taken it . . . Would the outcome have been worse than this? Worse than Frodo's silence?*

Those thoughts were surely madness, impossible questions and impossible answers repeated over and over in his mind as he watched Frodo through vague clouds of pipe weed, peering out from under the brim in his hat at the gaunt face - devoid of genuine expression; thin smiles and eyebrows raised with effort not masking the emptiness beneath.

The silence beneath.

And no talk of home, no reassurance of victory, no physical healing or comforting touches could dispel it.

*

New notes emerge from Sam, notes Gandalf hasn't heard before and yet sung so familiarly; but the song is incomplete. Another voice was needed to fill the silences left in this one, to form a melody rich and alive, slow and tenderly woven, repetitive and yet unique each time . . . And minor notes interweave into this as well, as Frodo's silence continues and he fails to respond to Sam's subtle caresses; touches that would go unnoticed but for Gandalf -- hearing the incomplete song breathe softly as Sam's hand cups his master's elbow, cradles his face gently.

Frodo is silent.

 

*

Perhaps Gandalf is too used to this silence, perhaps he has grown accustomed to straining so hard to listen for what seems like so long. And so when he is startled awake, it takes long, dizzying moments to realise this terrible sound is also ringing out loud, and he's clamped his hands over his ears automatically at the agony of it. And the sound continues - if anything it becomes more and more unbearable, and it's not until it fails for a moment to draw breath does he realise it's screaming. Someone's screaming.

It almost causes him physical pain to approach that sound, to fumble along the cool white stone of the passageway towards Frodo and Sam's chambers. He sees Aragorn approach from the other direction, sees the man's mouth move but no sound seems to emerge. The King's eyes are burning and a drawn sword is flaming in his grasp, and the pain on his face must mirror Gandalf's own. Aragorn struggles with the door handle in his urgency, but the Istari grips the man's arm, as much for his own support as to hold him back from bursting into the room, brandishing his weapon.

Frodo is making the sound Gandalf discovers when he carefully pushes the door open, straining to see and sense through the beating sound what is going on in the room. Frodo and Sam have been given -- despite their protests -- one of the more luxurious chambers. The series of arched windows along the curved wall have all been broken; anguished shards of the thick, distorting glass cutting into the night and spilling starlight into the room past the frantic fluttering of torn curtains and onto the two small figures.

Gandalf comes to a halt as he sees them, holding out an arm without shifting his gaze to stop Aragorn as well. Frodo's skin would seem white in the starlight, but instead it takes on an almost blue sheen in contrast to the white scarring he bears; a cold groove in his left shoulder, ribbons of paleness criss-crossing his back, twin puncture marks at the nape of his neck. He can't see Frodo's face, it's covered with a tense mess of skeletal fingers although he can see a slit of darkness -- lashes spiked with tears - through the gap in Frodo's right hand. The sound breaks off into a wail and Sam -- suspenders hanging low down the sides of his thighs like Frodo's, but his shirt only half unbuttoned -- stumbles forward towards his master, flinging arms around him as Frodo pauses to draw breath.

Frodo stiffens, and Gandalf struggles to resist the urge to rip Narya off his finger as the sound rises beyond a scream, beyond recognition as a voice . . . A cacophony of sobbing crying pleading indescribable unbearable screaming *screaming* as Frodo pants for breath in Sam's arms . . . And then the sound bursts out of his mouth as he flails and thrashes, pounding as Sam's chest with his fists and arching, struggling to get away . . . But Sam stands firm, unrelenting though his eyes squeeze close and his head bows with pain, his arms an unforgiving band around Frodo's body, holding him, not letting go.

And finally Frodo stops, and the sound is an incoherent sobbing as he heaves for breath, limp in Sam's arms. His legs give way and Sam slowly lowers them both to the floor, kneeling as if he is begging, or praying for relief, salvation. And Gandalf feels mirroring tears on his own face, and feels like begging himself as the sounds begin to sink into silence again, and yet . . .

Sam is moving, softly rocking Frodo, his body like a corpse in Sam's arms, face buried in Sam's shoulder and arms hanging limply at his sides, hands half-curled into trembling fists. And a sound begins, a song rising; Sam's rocking is the rhythm for the low, choral hum that reverberates through him, repeating over slowly, slowly, the pain echoing from it and washing over Gandalf in waves, though their harsh panting breaths is the only noise that fills the room to mortal ears.

And an answering voice rises, a single note of agony ascending up out of the relentless chorus yet separate from it; a dirge, a lament, rising and falling and keening unbearably . . .

And he had thought the silence was unbearable yet this, this . . . His heart feels shattered like so much glass, feels squeezed empty or burst; and the two figures on the floor are surely to small, surely to small to hold this, surely too small to be able to produce such a sound, such a song of their own . . . A song that oughtn't be their own but could exist no other way.

It fills his world, and all else is dark and empty. All else is silence.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/1217.html


End file.
